The Warlock King (The Kings) (7 page)

She wondered whether any of it was true. The man was supposed to be some kind of seer. Eccentric. Wacko.
Brilliant
.

“Chloe?” Mili questione
d softly. “Talk to me. You’re acting crazy.”

Chloe looked up, blinking. “What?”

Mili shook her head. “What’s going on in there?” She tapped her fingers to her own head in reference.

“I don’t really know, actually,” Chloe told her with a shrug. “But maybe something good. If the fates are on my side.”

“Something about Disneyland.”

“Sort of,” Chloe offered with a half-smile. “That’s where I need to start, anyway. Several years ago, I was in a bar in LA where a lot of Akyri would go to hang out. I was traveling through or I never would have gone there, believe me. But I had to stay overnight and the city was overwhelming me, so I went out to be with others of my kind.” Chloe knew Mili would understand this. Other Akyri often acted as buffers for Chloe, shielding her from the emotions of Earth’s animals, both human and non-human.

She went on. “Once inside, I kept to myself and stayed in the corner. I didn’t want anyone asking me which warlock I served. At one point, I overheard this group of Akyri laughing about some crazy elder who apparently patronized fairs, circuses, and carnivals – that kind of thing – to the point that he actually
lived
in them.”

“Okay,” said Mili, nodding once.

“The thing is, he apparently had gone mad because of his visions or whatever. He’s supposed to be some kind of seer.”

“And you think he’s in Disneyland.”

“Apparently he showed up on opening day in July and never left.”

“
And you want to talk to him.”

“If he’s real – and he’s there – then maybe he can help guide me, Mili. Tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

“You’ll listen to a crazy old man living in a tilt-a-whirl, but you won’t listen to your best friend?”

Chloe gave her a look.
“Disneyland doesn’t have any tilt-a-whirls.”

“How would you know?” Miliani slid off of her stool and planted her hands on her hips. “I already told you what you should do. Stop running and have dinner with the Warlock King. Get to know him a little. Give him a chance. You never know what might happen.”

The idea was preposterous. There was no way she could
give in
to him and
surrender
and let him…. Her mind wondered.
Let him
…. Her body was suddenly remembering Jason’s arm around her waist, his magic cascading over her like an invisible liquid orgasm, his otherworldly eyes boring into hers, searing her down to her very soul.

“Chloe?”

Chloe blinked. Her cheeks felt flushed. “No,” she said, her throat dry. She cleared it and went on. “You’re right, you
don’t
know what might happen. He might be a perfect gentleman who is somehow capable of completely ignoring the dark pull of his magic and never giving in to it and turning into a bossy asshole, ever.” She gave Mili that raised brow look that said she didn’t believe it even as she suggested it. “Then again, maybe not. As you say, you never know.”

Now she
smiled and leaned in. “
Not
unless you visit an ancient Akyri seer in the ‘happiest place on Earth’ and he
tells
you what would happen.”

She moved past Mili and headed toward the hall that would lead to her bedroom. It was time to pack. “And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Chapter
Seven

Lalura Chantelle stilled. Her eyes froze on the last word in the sentence she’d been reading.

After a moment, she lifted her head, took off her reading glasses, and carefully placed her book and the glasses on the coffee table beside her easy chair. Then she waited, tucked warm and safe beneath her thick plush throw.

The fire in her hearth flickered, the flames dancing in a sudden breeze. Lalura caught the faint scent of oil, frankincense and myrrh. She waited.

The open books laid out on a table across the room began to rustle. A page turned. Another. Soon, they were fanning from one side of the book to the other. She waited.

Her gauzy white curtains swayed. The air in the room heated as if touched by the sun in a mid-day desert. Lalura heard voices, ancient and nearly forgotten. They whispered. She waited.

A slice of light appeared a few feet in front of her chair. It spread and grew, pulsing outward as if the air were parting to make way. And that’s what it was doing.

As the door to another time and place opened wide, Lalura’s blue eyes sparked with intelligent interest and eternal patience.

From out of the light stepped a man, tall and broad and wrapped in the robes of a time long gone by. Only his eyes were visible. Those eyes, dark and depthless, gazed into Lalura’s. Her brow arched as the light behind him dissipated and winked out, leaving him standing still and quiet and exuding untold power in the middle of her living room.

“Ah,” greeted Lalura. “I was wondering when you would pay me a visit.”

He said nothing. The air in the room cooled, returning to normal. The scent of anointing oils faded. The book pages settled, and the curtains became still.

“You seem weary, Amon,” said Lalura, her scratchy voice so crisp and clear in the quiet that was punctuated softly by the crackling of the hearth fire. “Or would you prefer that I call you Ramses?”

No reply.

“I suppose this weariness is a good thing, as you’ve stopped leading the Hunters in their raids.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I assume that if you are tired, it’s because you’ve put the vast majority of your power into protecting your daughter and grandchildren,” she went on. Something sparked to life in the stranger’s dark eyes. “I must thank you,” she added. “Dannai Caige and her son and daughter mean a good deal to me as well.”

“You are the mortal who raised her,” came his voice at last, deep and resonant much like Roman D’Angelo’s. But Amon’s words were laced with something indescribable. It was as if they were being heard through the annals of time. They were strong, but tainted with ancient history and all that it entailed.

“I am,” she admitted easily. Proudly.

“Then it is you to whom I owe my gratitude,” he said. “Dannai is wise, intelligent, and kind. Those are not inherited traits.”

Lalura’s blue eyes shone. After a moment in which she watched the stranger carefully, she tilted her head to one side and slowly nodded in acceptance of the compliment. “But that’s not why you’re here, Ramses,” she said. “Dannai is not the one you have come to speak to me about. You’ve come to talk to me… about your brother.”

Amon’s dark eyes flashed. Slowly, he raised his hand and unfastened the gauzy material concealing his visage. He unwrapped it, revealing one of the most ruggedly beautiful faces Lalura had ever set eyes upon.

Perhaps
the
most beautiful.

For a woman who e
ntertained the company of men like the 13 Kings, such a realization was frankly incredible.

Without taking his powerful eyes from her
s, Amon sat down, sinking gracefully into a chair that had not been there a second ago. His magic was automatic apparently, and Lalura was not surprised. She was, however, impressed.

“I do seek your council,” he said softly. “You are right that it was I who led the Hunters.”

“I know.”

“And you are right that I no longer do.”
Then Amon said, “What we must discuss may take some time. So please allow me to prepare refreshments.”

He gestured smoothly to the three-foot space
between them. A table appeared. Sandwiches, cakes, and biscuits of assorted varieties were stacked four-tiers high on gold sandwich stand atop it. They smelled fresh, the cookies warm, the chocolate melted. The tea’s strong aroma curled through the air, deep and sultry and tempting.

“Al
l right, you can set a fine tea, I’ll give you that,” said Lalura. “And clearly you know my preferences.”

Amon calmly poured some of the golden pot’s tea into a gold teacup and added milk from a small gold pitcher. He then picked up a saucer and held the tea out for Lalura.

She took it, equally calmly, and enjoyed a sip. It was perfect.

“I have seen neither my brother nor my queen in more than five thousand years,” Amon said as he leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on the arm
rests, as a pharaoh would do. “At that time, we convened and left this realm, weary of the fighting between man and monster. And between man and man.” He paused and considered her with the kind of hole-boring scrutiny one would only find with a god. “I must ask. What causes you to mention my brother now?”

“He is the one behind the attack on the 13 Kings at the pier in San Francisco,” she told him frankly. “He is awake, Ramses.”

Amon gazed at her steadily and quietly for some time.

The seconds ticked past. Lalura took another sip of tea and chose a Danish. It was perfect as well.

“You are truly worthy of the praise you are given, witch,” Amon said finally. He spoke softly, his tone laced with a hint of what might be considered respect. “You know much.”

“That’s not all.” Lalura swallowed her bite of scone and wiped the crumbs from the corners of her mouth. “He has your queen.”

More silence. Then, “Kamon is very smart. An attack against your 13 Kings is believable. However, he does not possess the ability to hold Amunet prisoner.”

“Oh, he’s not doing it alone,” Lalura said, setting her empty
teacup down and sitting back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. She adjusted the warm blanket over her body. “No king can truly possess a queen. As on the chessboard, she is too strong for that. Your brother has managed to pull the only dirty trick that would accomplish his goal. He’s using her own power against her.”

The fire in the hearth suddenly flickered madly – and went out. Amon was very, very still where he sat across from Lalura. The
atmosphere in the room grew heavy. It felt as though the air had taken on extra molecules,
leaden
molecules.

Lalura raised her chin. “
I see you hadn’t considered that.”

Very slowly, Amon stood.

A wind picked up outside, rushing through the tiny cracks in the windowsill and howling a high-pitched warning. Leaves rustled across the street, sounding like a crackling fire. Thunder rolled over the rooftops. As it rode over her home, the lights flickered.

The light that had seen Amon here a few minutes ago reappeared behind him, a portal about to open.

“Before you go, you should know that there is more in play here than meets the eye, Ramses. Your brother never had his sights set on the 13 Kings. They are a step in his process and nothing more. He is focused on something much, much bigger.”

Lightning crashed. Lalura ignored it.

She waved her hand, and the gorgeous table and all of the solid gold tea ware atop it disappeared.

She looked up at Amon and met his gaze, holding it steady. The light pulsing to life behind him paused in its growth. “If you truly hope to rescue Amunet, might I suggest that you concentrate on thwarting his next move, and leave your thoughts of revenge for another day?”

“You underestimate me, old woman,” Amon said. There was no disrespect in his tone. He used the term almost affectionately. “Kamon is after your queens. He has had a taste of what a queen’s power will give him. He wants more.”

“You’re further ahead than I thought, I admit.”

“But they are not his ultimate design either,” he told her frankly. “He does not desire the power of the 13 queens for the sake of possessing that power alone. He needs their strength,” he went on, “to unleash something that I barely managed to put to rest more than five thousand years ago.”

Lalura’s gaze narrowed. The ancient god was now treading territory that she was unfamiliar with. She may be a seer and counselor and she may be the oldest and wisest herald among the witch covens, but she was only human after all. And she would be the very first to admit that she didn’t know everything.

“When he does,” Amon told her gravely, “not a thing in any realm will be capable of defeating it.” He turned slightly, glancing at the portal behind him, which was once more opening wide. “And Kamon will become the least of your worries.”

Chapter
Eight

She was planning to run.

Jason had known she would do so from the get-go. It was what she was used to doing; she’d been running for countless years. It was now almost more a part of her genetic make-up than was the sparkling, cosmos she was actually composed of.

Jason slowly turned an enormous black diamond between his fingers. Black diamonds, also known as Carbonados, were never this large. They were normally quite small, no larger than a few carats. They were also more porous than white and colored diamonds, so they lacked the luster and sparkle of their sister stones.
They’d become a fad in society of late, despite their plainness. People would buy anything.